


life as a rubix cube

by dizzydreamer



Category: Avengers (Comics), Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Comics), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Library, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pining Steve, Pining Steve Rogers, Pining Tony, Pining Tony Stark, Slow Burn, god why was that even a tag, got a lot of library fuckers here??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-19 21:38:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14881691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzydreamer/pseuds/dizzydreamer
Summary: And Tony laughs, a distant kind of thing, lilt of a echo that might have been wonder."Makes sense, I guess.""What do you mean?"Tony shifts forward, nose to the sky, straight to the stars."Stars have to die to make something beautiful."Steve stops."Are we beautiful?"Tony smiles."You are."(Or, a story about a story, a little yellow mystery, and two boys that fall in love in the library.)





	1. shiver and burn

Summer settles warm on the city, and Westville High School sits brick brown and hot as Steve cuts through lawn, baking under the sun as the sky folds low, clouds brushing against tree tops and casting shadows on the blacktop. The day is thick with heat, sweaty summer dryness that clings to backs and throats, sticky warm sunshine that slinks down the mortar and settles against the walkway, all stone staircases and red painted doors.

Kids brush past his elbow, a current of bodies that melt past the doors, desperate hands that reach for keys and phones, _click click, have you heard_ , and Steve shuffles past, slipping through the crowds and sprinting through the breezeway, open fields between buildings until he's there.

The library's gone soft in the sun, chipped yellow paint that sticks to the stone by sheer luck, cracked round the doorframe and peeling onto the grass. The sign reads open, and Steve pushes the double doors open with a shove, metal brushing over the carpet with a sigh, slip hiss of paper low in the air, steady hum as the printer chugs somewhere behind them.

Steve breathes in the weight of fiction, smile all teeth and tongue as he toes over to the help desk. It's painted over, green as honeydew and godawful, plastic desk sign that reads "Foxy Grandpa" perched at the corner, moments from spilling onto the carpet with a thump. A Rubix Cube sits yellow side up in a basket on the right, half finished and drowning in Christmas themed coffee cups and year old Twinkie wrappers.

It's also completely empty, which is exactly what you'd hope to find if you needed help.

Steve kicks at the corner, feather light and a press of toes, canvas of his shoes brushing against the lime wrought wood, and he hears a yelp.

"Don't kick my desk! What kind of hooligan defaces a library?"

And Steve just needed Grapes of Wrath for Mrs. Reisners Intro to Lit, but he suddenly feels a whisper of a hum that sounds like _stay_ , because two feet away stands the prettiest boy he has ever seen.

He is ink dark and lovely, tan skin and blacktop curls, and Steve wonders if maybe Reading Rainbow was right.

"Reading is magic," Steve sighs, and then he's pink all over, ruddy kind of rouge that slips down his cheeks and tucks under his collar, because he just said that out loud.

"You're telling me. I work in a library."

Steve thinks love sounds an awful lot like the whine of a pencil sharpener, whisper sweet as the hiccup of the copy machine, tastes like yellow pressed pages and the careful buzz of his heart in his throat.

"You are so right."

He's the stupidest person who will ever exist.

"Can I help you with something, or do you wanna set fire to the nonfiction section while you're here?"

"Is both an option?"

And then the boy laughs, a hush of a thing, a steady huff that drips off his tongue and lands at their feet, pooling around his ankles and yanking at his chest.

Love looks like Christmas tree coffee cups and a steady grin, and Steve is so fucked.

"What do you need?"

You.

"Grapes of Wrath."

Steve notices then, with a special kind of stupid, that the boy is wearing a name tag. The boy is wearing a name tag, and his name is Tony, and Steve thinks it's the loveliest thing he's ever seen.

"Lit, huh?" Tony chuckles, and then he's plucking a pencil off the desk and scribbling down some letter.

"I guess? I haven't read it yet," Steve says, distantly, eyes stuck on the curve of 'Tony', and he only has a moment before he realizes that is not what he means.

"Oh my god. Yes. Lit. Intro to Lit. That is, in fact, the class I am taking, goodbye."

And then he's ripping the call numbers out of his hands, and racing down the aisles, busy feet that trip over fiction and the sigh of his breath, quite literally fucking all the way off.

Tony's laughter, bright as sunshine and blowing past his cheeks, follows him the whole way down.

 

\---------------

 

'FIC STE GRA' stares up at him, lead lined and tumbling off the page, sharp points of Tony's handwriting that snap at his fingers till he finds the right row.

And there it is, Grapes of Stupid, by John Fuckass, and he's pulling it off the shelf when he notices something, yellow and love worn, a creased notebook, coffee stained with curly black sharpie that read, "Spitfire Kid."

And then his fingers are tugging it free from the shelf, and it smells like birthday cake and cigarettes, a nasty kind of wonderful, sharp scent that sticks in his throat and fills up his chest.

He opens it.

The first page is dirty, lines of text crossed out, ink next to pencil next to pen, and his thumb catches on the corner, scratching against the paper, and he only has a second where he thinks this is a terrible idea, before he's reading it.

'There once was a boy,' the story sings, and its all lined paper and smudged led, and Steve knows this doesn't belong on the shelves.

Can't find it in him to care. Starts again

'There once was a boy,' the author writes, 'with a match in his chest.'

The paper creases in the middle, like the author had thought about tearing it free, neat cut lines that fold and curve towards the edges, divots that might have been fingerprints if they'd pressed just right.

'He was a king, with a nasty bit of luck, tucked away in a old yellow tower, where he burned at the things that made light.'

Steve knew the feeling of wanting too much. But full bellies don't leave kisses, and Steve knows love that could move mountains.

'The king had no heart. Only heat, a wicker sharp burn, a fire that bit at his ribs when he forgot the feed it.'

The page is almost grey, smudge from palms that leave parchment ruddy, and Steve's wrist has gone black, dark with graphite and pink rubbed eraser marks.

'The kingdom was not his. The king was a prince, and then a star, and then a boy.'

There is a whoosh as you plummet. A tug in your cheeks as you climb down the skies.

'But the tower was a lonely kind of kingdom, and the boy spit back ashes and forged himself a crown.'

Steve knows nothing of Phoenixes. There is no rising from the rubble of the west side of Bronx, and Steve's palms are black from trying.

'And still he burned on.'

There are no matches north of Queens. The sun only sets in the Heights, and Steve's seen his mother's light go out.

'He tried to blow out the flame. Tried to burn up the match.'

The world sucks summer from his lungs. Steve knows the chill can be worse than the burn.

'Tried to quit the way it hummed from the chill and sputtered and spat.'

The match takes heat, but the cold takes bodies. Mrs. Pérez two units down knows fingers that cracked till they bled, and Steve knows the chills got a quiet bite.

'Daddy wished he'd burn cold.'

Mama wanted magic. Daisies and creek beds and beautiful things.

'So he burnt out.'

Mama doesn't want anymore.

'This is his story.'

The rest of page is empty space, clean white sheet that spills past the ink and swims in the silence.

Steve is desperate for more.

But he's got laundry to fold, two basket for Mr. Martín on 8th, so he closes the book. Presses his fingers to the spine as he sets it in place, yellow under the swell of his wrist, and he knows he'll be back.

Two feet march straight to the door, and if Tony smiles at him on the way out, well, isn't that just the icing on the cake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dont think reading rainbow ever said reading is magic and i needed you all to pay witness to my lies  
> hi, sup, my name is dizzy and i think four fics in is where you can stop pretending like youre a beginner and youve got to start owning up to your terrible fanfiction for what it is  
> had to google the dewey decimal system because i havent been to a library since like 2012 and if i fucked it up, i dont even care, im so tired of looking at this   
> comments and kudos are objectively better than crack, so if it didnt suck, maybe some love to the author?  
> i love you love you love you. thanks a million for reading. hope you like it so far!!


	2. simmer and brimstone

Summer sighs warm against the creak of New York, brash against the brick and rubble of the city, all warm washed columns and dirty sidewalks.

Westville sits proud, a pin hole beauty in the canvas snap of sky, all white stained tiles and ocean rimmed glass. The sky settles bright, cherry sun low in the clouds as Steve marches quick past the West Wing and slips through the grass.

The library is heavy stretched down the grass, long sigh of mortar that drips past the Casey building and melts in the sun. It stands quiet in the heat, brash of yellow that chips at the edges and sticks with a hiss, all thick snap of stone and hush of age.

The sign says "open", dark drip of ink that sits proud against the door, heavy against the wood and faded with time. The doors hiss open when Steve gives a shove, and his shoes catch at the crease of the carpet with a drag, hitch in his stride as he toes down the shelves.

"Don't trip, blondie."

Pretty boy, pretty boy, pretty pretty pretty-

"Yes, I will. Refrain, thank you, so much."

Stupid boy, stupid boy, bog man gay fool with yogurt for brains-

"Why, you're welcome."

And then he smiles, and there's a hitch in his cheek, thump slide curve of his mouth that draws towards the sky.

The draw of his lips is steady, holding firm as his place at the desk, and he's almost chaplin, dark slacks and dirty blue eyes, and Steve's never thought of licking someone so many times in a minute before, so this is all very new to him.

"Thank you."

He already said that.

"You already said that."

Bog man and his queer ways will be his demise.

"Hmm, yes. I did, in fact."

Bog man belongs in a ditch.

"You're cute when you're stupid."

And there are miles of sky, soft dipped and low, oceans of air that stretch between them, and Steve wants to cross it.

Steps forward.

"How was the book?"

Pauses.

"Huh?"

Doesn't move.

"Grapes of Wrath."

And then he's smiling again, all wide and prim and pretty white teeth, crease in his cheek that might be a dimple.

"Lit."

And Tony just laughs, shaky lilt of a thing, a spill of a sigh that slips past his tongue and lands at their feet.

Steve laughs too. It's kind of the best.

"Just here to browse."

And he wants to stay, feel the weight of the way Tony looks at him like the sky sets somewhere in his eyes, and Tony's are a different shade of blue than Steve's but he likes to think they match, a pair of something lovely, pieces of a puzzle only they could put together.

He wants to stay. He wants the shake of Tony's voice like the sky wants to burn.

'Once upon a time,' he'd say.

'Once upon a time, there was you, and there was me-'

But the story awaits.

  
\-------------------

  
Spitfire Kids sits lonely on the shelf, all yellow spine and coffee kissed cover, and it still smells like empty when he plucks it off the row, but there's a hiss of new, something different about it, and when he opens the book, he sees the first page missing.

"There is an itch," the book says today, "that he is trying to scratch."

The words stand proud, all capital corners and ink stain creases, and Steve lets out a breath.

'A burden of a sunrise that cries in his throat.'

There is a beanbag chair in the corner, Steve notices, yellow and old and spilling in the center.

'He is king of a tower that shakes with the sun.'

He sits. Crosses his ankles. Uncrosses them.

'There is the sky, and there is silence, and he sits in between.'

Crosses them again. Folds the corner of the page, and then lays it flat.

'There is quiet here. The sun only sets between the moon and the lonely.'

This book is not for reading. It is a story of silence. There is hush between the paper.

'Which one is he,' the book writes, 'The sky or the silence?'

Steve is the way the tension in him melts, sticky under sunlight, ice in his lungs that drips past his teeth and lands between the letters.

'This burn is not quiet. There are no stars to this ache.'

Steve is the ache that the cold leaves as it goes. He is the whisper of a cry that might have been starlight.

'He is the lonely.'

Steve is silent. He is cold, and he is hollow, and he makes no noise.

'He will not burn soft,' he writes, and it shakes across the page, 'he will catch and snag till the sunrise knows empty.'

Tony's eyes are the color of sin, dark as storm, azure like the paint Mama bought him when he turned fifteen.

'Till the sky is just a belly of stars. Till this match drags the quiet from the lonely. Till the boy,' and Steve is silent.

'Till the boy is not a summer thing.'

'The boy' sits loud in the line of his throat.

'The boy who is simmer but who never burns. The boy who is shaking but melts in the sun.'

This is not a love story. This is about a boy with a paper crown.

'The boy who is lovely. Who is golden and soft and climbs towers and shelves, leaves daisies in the sigh of a thing called wrath.'

A boy with daisies and no room to grow. A boy with fists too small to catch stars.

'This spark could catch them both,' he writes, and its desperate, lines and lines of text that are missing, crossed through and white pasted and staring through Steve.

'But would their edges still fit?'

Steve knows the shiver ache of ice that burns all the same. People lose limbs to the cold.

'Or would the match catch on parts of them they weren't ready to lose?'

Steve would give his tongue for blue eyes and paint.

'Life is like a Rubix Cube,' says the page, 'And some things are best left unfinished.'

Sable for his lashes and pitch for his brows. Fawn for the crease at the lip of his eye.

'But if the boy still wants to touch, can he be blamed?'

Handfuls of azure and a flattop brush.

'Fire just wants to catch.'

A canvas. Something neat and square and two fists wide.

'And he knows the two of them would burn.'

And then there is hush, a sudden thing, oceans and seas and rivers of space, blank white paper and pages unfilled.

Steve is silent. Closes the book. The spine spits shut with a snap, hiss of a hum that settles with a creak. The title stands proud, sharpie ink dark and begging 'Spitfire Kid', but all Steve can think about is finding a brush.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this in between metro rides in paris, so i apologize for the lateness  
> hello again, dizzy here! i am well aware that i do not have to introduce myself every chapter, and yet, here we are  
> this one was a bitch to write, because ive already started drafting for later chapters, and the exposition is the least fun part  
> were in agreement here bc i ALSO just want them to bone  
> i feel your pain. i really do  
> thanks for reading, i hope you like it so far!!! comments and kudos are chocolate chip cookies for my soul, so if i wasnt awful, feed the beast?   
> as always, love you love you love you. thanks for readin


	3. timbre and ache

Westville swims dizzy in the streets, heavy under the slide of rain, all sopping mortar and dew damp alleys. The sky dripped cool against the pavement, sticky summer melt of the clouds against stone, all dirty wet archways and cotton soaked backs.

The cold is steady, easy drip of wet that sticks mud to his shoes, sticky slide of sneakers against the smack of the blacktop.

Steve is quick, pushing through bodies with the snap sigh of _busy_ , hurrying through the walkways and blowing past the breezeway.

The library is slick in the sun, busy brash of yellow, cheesy hiss of paint that slips off the stone, crack of the mortar where she bleeds to the grass.

Steve thinks it's got it's own kind of charm.

Chipped, falling apart, and a moment from collapse, but charming.

That's what they say about his house, anyway.

"You look like you could use a snack," Steve hears, dripping on the carpet as the doors fold behind him.

And then Tony waves a Twinky from his desk, crook of his fingers he knows means 'come here,' and Steve's not one to say no to pretty boys.

Really really really pretty boys.

Boys whose almost sounds like maybe, dizzy like something the sun might have kissed. Boys with bellies full of daisies and cheeks full of wanting, tug tug of desperate at the base of their throats. Boys with lungs who know wishes and things that make noise, starlight kiss of the things that go wrong.

Pretty pretty boys with eyes that are, great really, and a nose thats, like, just right honestly, and-

Steve is still dripping on the library floor.

"Jesus, you look like a nightmare. Take your jacket off at least."

Steve takes off his jacket.

What. Tony's cute when he's worried.

"Okay."

And then Tony smiles, wide stretch of teeth that's all cheek and grit, a summer kind of sin that's painted in gold, busy bright blinding and melting off his tongue.

"So he speaks."

"I know words," Steve huffs, and then Tony smiles again, and the dizzy bloom of easy drips straight to his tongue till he's smiling just as wide.

"What a shame. I'd hoped you were here for lessons."

"Okay, Rosetta Stone. Should we start with our ABC's?" Steve laughs, and Tony is a dirty kind of pretty, all slack jawed smiles and loose cheek grins.

"Sure. F is for fu-"

And then Steve's fingers are tucked round his cheeks, pretty press of skin to skin, hot where his breath lands firm against his palm.

Steve's too sick to smoke crack, but he doesn't think he needs to anymore.

And then Tony licks his palm, and he pulls away with a hiss, smack of his fingers against the sigh of his cheek, light as a feather but Tony clutches his face.

"Oh my god. Assaulting me in my library? This is a new low. Even for the boy who can't read."

"I can read!"

"Prove you've ever read, once."

Steve has no idea what to say to that.

"Uh. Four score and seven years-"

"Bullshit. People quote that. Be fresh."

And then Steve is smacking him again, tap of his knuckles against the weight of his skull, and Tony yelps.

"Are you supposed to be quiet in the library?"

"Be quiet, blondie. I'm the god of this space."

And then Steve feels the itch, phantom sigh of desperation, hiss that settles in his throat with a clack, to crawl back toward the shelves in search of a match, beg light from the dark with the shake of a flame, when he sees it.

Yellow side up, sharp around the edges and sitting on the desk.

A Rubix Cube.

"Hey, Tony?"

_Life is like a Rubix Cube._

"Blondie?"

_Some things are best left unfinished._

"How long have you had that thing?"

Tony looks at the desk.

"What thing?"

"The Rubix Cube."

And then Tony huffs a laugh, slip hiss of breath through the space between teeth, and he says,

"That stupid thing? God, I dunno. Been sitting unfinished on my desk for months. Why?"

And Steve just doesn't know what to say.

So he smiles. Shakes his head, and turns around.

There is a beat of silence. There is one lovely moment where nobody speaks, and nobody moves, and the world is a hush.

And then Tony breaks it.

"Do I ever get to know your name?" is all he says, and it's soft, so soft, heavy breath of distance, two feet away and quiet as sin, dripping in desperate and coated in maybe.

"Steve," he just says.

And then he leaves. Marches down the stacks like there's fire at his heels, kick step of busy as he races down the aisle.

And if he hears Tony say, "Steve," hush in the dim, soft and lovely and full of magic, well. What do you say to that?

  
\-----------

  
Spitfire Kid is tucked in the shelf, front cover bent, sticking at an angle with a careless kind of air, shoved next to Grapes of Wrath like pitch marks the spot.

Steve doesn't have time for memory making. There is ice in his cheeks and he's aching for a match.

He opens the book. The second page is still there, but there's text missing, spaces minus ink, deep dark wash of pen cut through words.

"It hisses," he writes today, and then Steve is burning, knee deep and sinking in a scrawl that bites.

"The match. With its spit and grit and need to burn."

Steve always feels a whisper of heavy, a dirty need to clutch at the secrets, seconds from shoving the book back on the shelf.

"It aches," sighs the page, "with its fire and heat and desperation to touch."

Steve sits. There is a hiss where his thumbs catch the press of the page. His lungs taste like brine and grit, dirty ocean air that sits in his throat.

"Play with fire" says the book, crooked and sharp and smudged, "and you get burned."

Sea wash of empty that pools in his jaw till it catches a spark, and then he's off, mouthful of salt that chip at his teeth.

"Daddy locked the fire in a castle so it wouldnt spread."

There is a tide in his belly, a wash of a whim that hums at the breeze, and the quiet of the chill is church bells when he's drowning.

"And now I'm nothing but ashes."

Steve thinks about the Rubix Cube, with the sunniest side up, and tries not to think of the way Tony dreams the world might spark if it caught him.

"And the match just burns on."

There's more. There are miles of ink that has yet to catch spark, but it's sudden. The catch in his throat, dirty sigh of words that taste too much like yellow tiles and Twinkie wrappers, and Steve feels sick. Sees oceans and rivers and bellies of sky, brine topped and tooth chipped, and he stops.

Puts the book back on the shelf.

Spitfire Kid is bright as the sun, but all Steve can wonder is if Tony has more snacks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is definitely dumb and ill probably edit this but its late here in paris and i crave the sweet taste of unconsciousness  
> i really hope you guys are liking this fic because i have mediocre feeling about how this is going and part of mes like?? just end it??? idfk  
> if you liked it, maybe leave a comment or a kudo, because at this point my body runs on validation and spite, and im really not proving anybody wrong writing mediocre fanfiction on the internet  
> as always, i love you love you love you. hope your days of full magic and you get everything youre searching for


	4. wishes and wanting

The sun dripped low, softer under November skies, dazy kind of chill that sunk into the streets. The leaves grew pink cheeked in the cold, golden hum of pigment that left the sidewalk sunny.

And Steve was a firecracker thing, busy blur of bustling, sinking slip of shoes against the grass as he slid towards the doors.

The library seemed to get yellower every time.

Steve doesn't know how it's possible, but he swears it gets yellower every time.

"Does the library seen yellower today?"

The doors sigh behind him, double bend of brackets that sink shut with a click, and Tony furrows his brow.

"It is exactly the same shade of yellow I see in my nightmares. Why?"

And Tony is a November thing too, pink cheeked and lovely, dark wash against the stain of the carpet, all black slacks and curly hair, and Steve's fingers burned, static of his chest, itched to touch and tug till his cheeks pulled tight, till all he could see was teeth and grit and the dimple on his left.

Till he smiled like the sun set for this thing between them.

"Lets go outside," Tony says suddenly, sitting up from the desk with a snap.

Steve had been staring.

"Aren't you kind of the only person who works here?"

"Exactly. So when I say it's closed, it's closed."

Steve just smiles, miles long and all teeth, ruddy hum of color in his cheeks that he'll blame on the cold.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

And Tony is standing there, just him and Steve, oceans of space the bends somewhere between them.

He takes a step.

"Okay."

And they go.

  
\-------------

  
"What time is it?"

"Quarter to seven. Why?"

Tony's stretched out like a cat, loose limbs on the grass. They're parked out on the breezeway, sitting in the shadow of the West Building, lazy in the chill.

"Wanna show you something."

Steve smiles.

"Show me now."

"Nah, it's gotta get dark. Tell me something."

"Something?"

And Tony just smiles, loose press of lips, shadow of a grin as the sun goes down.

"Anything."

So he does.

"We're the stuff of stars," Steve says, tipping back his chin to lay his head on the grass.

"Huh?"

Tony turns his head, and the sky paints shadows on his cheeks, dizzy shake of color that's washed in the moonlight.

"The nitrogen, in our DNA. Calcium in our teeth, iron in our blood, all of it. Comes from the same stuff as collapsing stars."

And Tony laughs, a distant kind of thing, lilt of a echo that might have been wonder.

"Makes sense, I guess."

"What do you mean?"

Tony shifts forward, nose to the sky, straight to the stars.

"Stars have to die to make something beautiful."

Steve stops.

"Are we beautiful?"

Tony smiles.

"You are."

And Steve just doesn't know what to say.

"What did you wanna show me?"

The stars push like daisies through the lip of the sky, ink bright and lovely as the turn of the night.

"See that, up there?"

Steve looks.

"Which one?"

"Up there, to the left."

And Steve squints past the trees, dizzy line of vision that melts in the sky, drips past leo and lands on cancer.

"Yeah."

"Do you know the story?"

And Steve shakes his head, reaching his fingers out towards the base of the sky.

"You can't catch them," Tony laughs, and Steve just smiles.

"Tell me about them."

"That ones Karkinos," he says, drawing his eyes back on cancer, "sent by Hera to distract Heracles from the twelve labors."

Steve isn't looking at the stars. He's caught on the way Tony smiles at the sky, vice grip of friction that's bright in the dark.

"What happened to him?"

"Heracles crushed him."

Steve is silent, drawn for a moment in the wash of the stars.

"So he died?"

"Sort of."

Steve paused.

"Sort of?"

And Tony smiled again, brim tip of jaw to the stretch of the sky, cheeks brushed pink in the chill.

"Hera placed him in the sky."

Steve nods.

"He became a star."

"A constellation," Tony corrects.

And his smile goes soft, waving in the light, dizzy with distance and empty as the night.

"Remember what I said? About dying to become something beautiful."

He does.

"It's like that. Karkinos had to lose. Everything, really, just to-"

"To be a star."

And then Tony's smile is blinding, sunlight and starlight and things that go boom.

"What about me," Steve says finally.

"What about you?"

Steve blinks.

"You said I was beautiful."

Tony squints.

"You are."

"How?"

Tony laughs.

"You just are," he says, and he's smiling, "no dying necessary."

Steve didnt think Tony would like to hear it feels like every pretty part of him has drowned in his throat.

He looks at the stars instead. Leo, then cancer, then Tony Stark's eyes.

What. He's cute when he's happy.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i kind of started to feel boxed in to the way id set up the narrative, so, hey! they left the library! do we like that?? i dont really know. but they get gayer by the minute, and im not complaining  
> i wrote this on the plane ride back from paris, and im home for about a week, so hopefully ill be able to get another chapter up as quick as these last two  
> i think were about halfway through the story right now? i like it a little more as i go on, so i hope you guys are kinda falling in love with these idiots too  
> as always, i live breathe and die for your thoughts, so if you didnt hate it, maybe a comment or a kudo?   
> love you love you love you. hope your days kicked ass, and your life is full of magic


End file.
